Between our house and the Tschantzes’,
Near the corner of the patch that we hardly ever mow
Where we never mow,
Came two deer,
A buck and a doe,
Down the hill then over the creek and off.
A stream of unmowed lawns and untrimmed hedge
Still springs from chores undone
And runs for the running
Of the wild life that remains.
One day I will do those chores
And block up those holes in the roof
So nothing will fly through our property.
In this garden there could be gods—
A Gormley Christ, a laughing Buddha,
Saving a girl from being buried too soon—
But it’s all too obvious.
Instead I could paint or scratch their names
On the underside of rocks
And hide them around the place,
Under a tree or by the stream,
Places of holy power.
But imagine yourself carving
Rock like a bronze-age scribe—
Better to think the places where the gods would lie,
Or better yet to leave them out
And write the gods in a poem about the garden.
But imagine yourself writing
A poem about the hidden gods—
This poem too should be unwritten.